Happy Giddy Boots

Just one week into doing “The Artist’s Way” program and already I’ve baked the cake I’ve been lusting for in my heart for five years. The power of procrastination is strong with this one.

If you don’t know much about “The Artist’s Way,” it’s a program for “creative recovery”–a phrase that makes my bowels twist. But I think it’s working.

In a past life, I did all things wonderful and creative. I wrote short stories and poems, drew, acted, painted, played the piano, did needlework … Then I turned 5, and that all came crashing down. Kidding.

You know how it happens. Your life gets more complicated, more adult, and you don’t have the spare time or money or space in your brain. You’re working and/or going to school and/or struggling with a bad relationship and/or dealing with whatever, and you just can’t do it. You can’t justify being creative.

So, I saw the cake on the cover of a Martha Stewart Living magazine in February 2003, and I squirreled it away. And I think of that time in my life as living in an absence of hope, just struggling, but obviously I thought I’d make that cake someday.

Five years later, I’ve made the career change that was just a fantasy. I’m living in a city I love. I’m a happyhappy newlywed. And I’ve made the cake. Testify!

So, bring on the creative recovery. Even if that phrase makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

I know it’s a tradition reserved for people who’ve been married longer than five minutes, but Jeff and I agreed two minutes in to institute a weekly Date Night. Last weekend we saw “Cloverfield,” a movie that gave me motion sickness so intense I couldn’t look at the screen. I was left to close my eyes, bow my head, and pray that if The Lord would spare me the indignity of defiling Date Night by upchucking the boogie all over the texting hipsters in the seats in front of me, I would NEVER EAT BLUE CHEESE VINAIGRETTE AGAIN.

I am happy to report that He did not forsake me.

Last night for Date Night, Jeff and I decide to break out the pasta machine. We clear some space, scrub the table, and start making a well of flour and eggs, just like they do on Food TV. Only our eggs and flour refuse to come together. So we add eggs, curse, knead the dough, curse, double-check the recipe. Throw the mess into the Kitchen-Aid. And the result is a wad of dough that looks like a freshly removed tumor.

All I want to do is bury the dough tumor deep within the bowels of the trashcan. I feel like it’s my duty as a former National Honor Society member–to help keep the world free of imperfections. But Jeff insists on sticking to the recipe and letting the tumor rest for 30 minutes.

Apparently tumors need rest. When we finally fed the World’s Ugliest Dough Ball into the machine, it gave way to amazingly consistent sheets of uncut pasta and then to lovely, winding nests of noodles.

I’m sure we looked insane, high-fiving each other over and cupping our hands under the machine as if thar was gold is them thar noodles. But when we sat down to our bowls of homemade pasta and sauce, I realized why people still get married. It’s fun.

Magical Interweb, my huckleberry friend! It’s so good to be back.

The last time we talked, I had just turned in my letter of resignation at the bakery. Since then I left my job, survived the last bridal shower, catered a Christmas party, dyed my hair, celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas with my ever-extending family, moved, got married, changed my name, honeymooned, unpacked, spent 30 minutes trying to unlock the front door with my new key, and here we are.

After so much excitement, it’s nice to get back to normal life.

I’m sure there will be plenty of stories to tell about being a newlywed, living in a new city, and finding a new job.

So, welcome to my new life. Door’s open.

When I explain the Pandora charm bracelet, say, “So it’s a modular system.” There is no hotness like geeked-up hotness.

Of a land where Tim McGraw, Timbaland, and Tom Jones can hang out, side by side, the way they do on my iPod.

“So who won the Verizon Award?”

“Horizon.”

“Huh?”

“Horizon, not Verizon.”

“What’s a horizon?”

There’s a new book called “My Last Supper,” where 50 chefs are asked to talk about their ideal last meal. Some want caviar, some want Krispy Kremes. Most want their mom’s cooking.

I would have my grandmother’s spaghetti and meatballs.

Don’t ask me how a country mountain girl learned how to make them, but it was an all-day extravaganza. She would stand at the stove for hours, hand-shaping and pan-frying the meatballs, and making the Army-sized pot of sauce from scratch. We would hover around her kitchen, living for the day when we were tall enough to lean over the pot and huff the sauce. Waiting like Pavlov’s dogs for her to pull the hunk of parmesan from the fridge and christen each plate with freshly grated cheese.

The meatballs were so good, I’d eat the spaghetti noodles first and save the meatballs for last, slicing each one into tiny, OCD-worthy slivers to make them last as long as humanly possible.

My grandmother hasn’t made spaghetti and meatballs in a decade. Bad knee. She can barely stand long enough to make a pot of coffee.

She tried to teach the recipe to my mom, but it’s not the same. When Mommaw made the spaghetti and meatballs, she had a singularity of purpose. She wasn’t doing laundry at the same time, or talking on the phone, or checking her eBay alerts. She was making spaghetti and meatballs.

That’s what I’d want for my last supper. Something made with love and attention. Someone giving me their best.

That, or a Krispy Kreme doughnut.

“Who’s that?”

“Christie Brinkley.”

“Who’s she?”

“Mom, Christie Brinkley. The model. They just said she’s been on over 500 magazine covers. You’re probably the only person in America who doesn’t recognize her.”

“What can I say? All skinny blondes look alike to me.”

Last Thursday I turned in my letter of resignation.

It was necessary. I’m getting married and moving about an hour away.

When I started this job, I was at one of the lowest points in my life. I drove by the place, saw the “Help Wanted” sign, applied for a job I knew almost nothing about, and was hired immediately. The owner offered to train me as her apprentice in return for a two-year commitment.

I hit the two-year mark Oct. 29.

When I turned in my resignation, I thought I’d feel like celebrating. You have NO IDEA have many times I’ve fantasized about ripping off my uniform in the middle of the place and marching out the door in a personal declaration of topless freedom.

But I don’t feel like celebrating. I feel like I’ve tipped the first domino in a 60-day chain that will include leaving my job, packing, bridal showers, moving, the holidays, and getting married.

It’s overwhelming.

Anyway, the plan at work is for me to train four people to take my place. FOUR. The idea makes me tired, but I can rally. My new fantasy is to leave the place after doing a month of my best work, to leave it with a seamless transition.

And if that doesn’t work, I can ALWAYS walk out topless.

I’m practically ovulating over ordering a set of return address labels with my future married name and address.

Is this the adult equivalent of writing “Mrs. Rebecca Timberlake” all over my notebook?

Teen guy, pointing to the Gerald Ford commemorative stamp: Hey, is that Dr. Phil?

You’re 3. You’re wearing jeans and a white turtleneck. And you can’t believe your dumb-ass aunt didn’t see that you ARE Batman.

So Sunday was our first wedding shower. People like to ask how we met.

I’m not sure.

We met about 10 years ago, somewhere on campus. We were dating other people.

The not-remembering used to bother me. Now I like to think we were living in V formation, starting far apart but always heading to the same place, together.

Did that sound good? Yeah? Complete and utter crap.

I wish I could go back in time to that first meeting and whisper to my Younger Self, “Pay attention … You are going to be so in love with this man. When you’re sick and begging him to stay away because of the grossness–the grossness!– he will not stay away. He will come with loaded potato soup and medicine and DVDs. He will rub your bloated, dead-fish feet voluntarily at the end of every work week. He will tuck a flower in your hair and make you dinner. He will tell you you’re beautiful. He will dance with you in the living room, in the kitchen. You will have more fun with him than you’ve ever had with any other person. You will tell him things you’ve never told anyone. You will go to sleep with him singing to you and wake up to him smiling at you. And he will say he’s the lucky one.”

I do not remember how I met him, but I will always remember how lucky I am that I did.

Saturday I’m packing my overnight bag, and I can’t find my Not Getting Pregnant pills. They’re in the same bag as a box of All-Bran and a bottle of moisturizer–the basics for a hot-n-horny night of sweet, sweet lovin’. My apartment has four rooms. The bag should be obvious.

Two hours later, I’m on the phone with a pharmacist, begging like a toddler in the toy section for a replacement pack. She says, “You LOST your PILLS? You know your health insurance probably won’t cover another pack.”

“It’s OK. I don’t mind paying the full price.”

“What if you find your other ones?”

“I’ll save them for next month.”

“Well, we don’t usually …”

“I will not sell them on the streets.”

“Yes, but we’re not supposed to …”

“I’m MOVING and I’m getting MARRIED and I CAN’T FIND ANYTHING. Those pills are in a bag with a huge box of cereal, and I CAN’T FIND THEM. They are not turning up. They are not just under the car seat. Please. Help. Me.”

“I’m putting in the computer that you’re in the store. They’ll be ready in 30 minutes.”

An hour later, I’m walking back into my apartment, new bag o’ pills in hand. I reach down to toss Henry the Wünderdog’s blanket into the laundry basket.

And there they are.

My dog has been sleeping on my pack of birth control pills for almost a week.

Way to guard Mommy’s virtue, Henry. Good dog.

“I actually made dinner last night. Cubed steak and mashed potatoes. And we had some porn.”

“Porn?”

“Rebecca. Corn. I haven’t seen a porno since my first husband took me to the drive-in to see that Deep Throat movie.”

Now, THIS is the kind of small talk I can totally get behind.

Pink. Felt. Father-daughter dancing shoes.